


Widow's Bite

by victorianvampire



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29777295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorianvampire/pseuds/victorianvampire
Summary: A collection of my Natasha Romanov/Reader oneshots (originally posted on Tumblr @maythewidowtakeusall)
Relationships: Natasha Romanov/Female Reader, Natasha Romanov/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	1. The New Widow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your wife promises to see you again in a minute before the time heist, only she doesn’t return afterwards when everyone else does.

There will be no grand funeral. No crying on each other’s shoulders. No embellished gravestone to commemorate her life and heroism. Hell, there isn’t even a _body_ left of her to bury. There is nothing, just a sentence that keeps echoing in your ears, uttered by your late wife as she had hugged you encouragingly before the Time Heist.

“I’ll see you in a minute.”

But then you didn’t. Natasha never came back. And thus the longest minute of your life began as you realized that you will have to live on without her.

You fought hard and well afterwards. You knew she would never have forgiven you for giving up, and you had no intention of letting the rest of the Avengers down. You sacrificed your every thought and surge of energy for the cause so you didn’t have to think about your wife having to die without you. Or about how Nat had begun to plan your future together, your marriage giving her an edge of hopefulness she never had the luxury to possess before. You didn’t sleep, didn’t even go back to your shared room in the compound afterwards because you just _couldn’t_. Nat was gone, and you sorely wished for your memories of her to die with her, but in more ways than one, she stayed almost vividly alive in your heart and mind. You could feel her arms around your bare form when you took a shower, shivering as you cried and wrapped yourself in layers of towels to kill the phantom touch of her skin on yours. You heard her voice and her laughter everywhere, and as if she lived on in your mind, you could almost know for certain what she’d say or think in different situations. She guided your hands every time you picked up a weapon and fired at an enemy as if she was trying to keep you alive even from beyond the grave. And surprisingly, you made it. You survived Thanos, you survived the deaths around you and you helped reinstate the world to how it was before. The only problem is that you never planned to survive yourself.

You wanted to die. Planned on dying. Imagined death to wear the face of your dead lover. Death seemed like an old friend, like a relief to a neverending ailment. But for some cruel reason, you were spared. Sentenced to life instead of death.

Clint is glued to your side as you attend Tony’s funeral. You don’t know whether it’s because he feels guilty or because he feels sorry for you. Probably both. You down your champagne and call it lunch, feeling like your stomach is half the size it should be. You want to excuse yourself and get lost in the bucolic little forest and lie down in a ditch and be forgotten.

“I’ll step outside for a moment. I need some air.”

“(Y/n),” is all Clint says as he draws you in for a long, stiff hug. When he pulls back, an unfamiliar weight in the pocket of your black blazer demands your attention. “Go get some fresh air.” The look he is giving you is very meaningful and demanding. You step outside. Manoeuvring the grieving people, you sit down on a bench by the lake where Tony’s old heart had drowned not long ago and reach into your pocket. A cheap phone in a red case finds itself in your confused and hesitating fingers. Unlocking it is all too easy, and the phone has nothing on it except for a video. You almost don’t want to open it because you know what you’re going to find on it.

You play the video anyways.

She looks tired, but young - oh so young with her creamy skin and fiery hair. Her hair is straightened, parted down the middle neatly, and she’s wearing that leather coat you always found so foxy. She proposed to you when SHIELD collapsed in on itself, and you almost end up laughing hysterically when you realize that you can tell the years apart by your late wife’s hairstyles. This video is old - made probably in 2014. She’s so real though that you want to cry, and she hasn’t even started talking yet.

“Hey baby.”

Now you’re crying. Unashamed, fat tears fall from your eyes, blurring your vision up to a point where you only wipe your eyes so that you can continue seeing her. Natasha, trapped in that tiny rectangle of a screen you’re clutching so desperately, sighs before smiling slightly.

“I’ve given this message to Clint for safekeeping in case… well, in case I ran out of all my nine lives. SHIELD is gone and compromised, and I’m helping Steve shut down Hydra, but I can’t guarantee that I’ll come home. I wish I could. If you’re watching this, I’m gone and the mission probably went horribly wrong, which is of course not my fault. Remember how I couldn’t promise you to always come back? Well, I want you to know that despite not having made it, I did everything in my power to do so. I just probably drew the short straw or something. But you don’t have to, (Y/N). Wherever I am, and whatever might have happened, I want you to keep going on. I know you’d want the same, should our roles be reversed. I’m hoping you never have to see this…”

Her voice trails off as she tears up. You almost forget that it’s a recording as you want to console her. But dead men need no consolation.

“… Even now, I’m hoping to delete this one day as you’re making coffee for the both of us one morning when we’re old. But luck runs out eventually, and we all have to go one day. If there is one thing I know, it’s the inevitability of death. I always knew it would come for me too. And sometimes I wished it would because of all the terrible things I’ve done. … But you changed that, you know? You made me want to live and you made me a better person. Clint turned my world upside down when he spared me, but it was you who crystallized that change in me, (Y/n). Your love saved me in more than one way and now I want to save you too. I know you. I know you want to be reckless now and you want to take risks, but I’m asking you not to. If you’ve ever loved me, baby, then you’ll do one more thing for me, okay? The world needs good people like you, so do everything in your power to stay alive and continue protecting it. Save people, as you did me. And forget me. Keep going while you have to. Fight your battles. Love those you care about. I’ll be waiting for you in the end. A lifetime is a small amount of time to pass if it means I’ll get to see you again. Because I will. I know I will. It will all be over in the blink of an eye, in but a minute. I promise. Now get out of here and live. I have to put on my best set of afterlife lingerie before you get here, and you know how long it takes for me to get ready.”

* * *

You watch the video one last time. It’s been years since you last did, but you finally feel like you’re ready to let go. Despite tearing up, you even laugh at Natasha’s silly joke in the end. Deleting it feels good. It feels like she can finally rest. And you can finally breathe. Hallelujah.

“What’s that?” your wife asks you, sinking down on the bed next to you as she glances at the old phone in your hand. “What, this old piece of junk? Just a memory, Wanda. One I’m willing to let go of now.”

“Well, good. I need you in the present.”

“That’s uncharacteristically romantic of you, Mrs (Y/l/n).”

Wanda grins. Hearing you call her your last name always makes her giddy.

“Sam called. He’s got a mission for us.”

“And here I was, expecting a candlelit dinner or something.”

“Maybe later. But we have a world to save first.”


	2. Partners in Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boring night of mission report writing with your girlfriend Natasha and your friend Clint takes an unexpected turn.

“This job will be the death of me one day.”

Natasha hums and holds up a finger, chewing on the end of her pen. Clint just grunts, not even bothering to answer you as he stuffs another slice of pizza in his mouth. You crinkle your nose - you’re a messy eater, but that boy can be downright nasty. Laying your head on your forearms and resting your eyes for a moment, you sigh. Being a SHIELD agent is all fun and games for an adrenaline junkie like you and your esteemed _colleagues_ , but eventually, when the fieldwork runs out and the paperwork catches up with you (along with threatening messages from Director Fury to deliver your reports on time), you don’t feel like it’s all that amusing anymore. Being stuck at HQ on a Saturday night at 11 pm isn’t your idea of fun. You ignore your badly typed up report in front of you as you gaze at your girlfriend expectantly, mouthing “entertain me” when she finally looks up. She rolls her eyes but smiles, her computer screen lighting up her face, lending her an almost ethereal glow. Natasha has always been an otherworldly phenomenon for you and probably always will be.

“Dying is pretty much part of the equation here,” Natasha finally acknowledges you, leaning back in her chair. “Hate to break it to you, but we’re constantly assigned the most dangerous missions.”

“I meant the paperwork, not the missions,” you grin, your face and hair a tired mess that is still the most beautiful thing in the world for Nat. She masks her admiration pretty well though, just so you don’t know the true magnitude of your effect on her. She’s not sure you’re ready for that. Hell, she’s not even sure _she herself_ is.

“Well, look at you being all optimistic,” Clint speaks up sarcastically with a mouthful of food. “Thinking you’d die of typing up a report instead of participating in a death-defying mission.”

“I’m not!” you laugh. “Really, it’s not like I am already planning my retirement or something.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause I am,” Barton smiles, his eyes looking but not really seeing. He’s seeing Laura and the kids and the house, and he sees himself teaching his children how to shoot straight with a bow and arrow and how to start a fire from scratch, and he’s already saving up for their college tuitions. You look at Natasha, who just shrugs with a smile. “Never really had the chance to think about living to a ripe old age before, but better late than never.”

“Wait, hold on - are you guys serious? You’re really thinking about the future so… positively?”

“It’s called hope, baby,” Natasha teases you. You click your tongue in mild frustration. You won’t be lectured about hope for the future by these two dramatic morons who would sacrifice their lives at a moment’s notice if they thought that was the best course of action.

“Well, since you’re both so awfully sure about surviving, I guess we need to talk about my funeral,” you end up laughing, sleep deprivation soaking into your slurred words. Clint snorts. Nat furrows her brows in confusion. “No dress code. Have a good time. And yes, by that I mean throw a huge party in a fancy club. Oh, and blast Highway to Hell on maximum volume during the ceremony.”

Facing your own mortality almost every day is a burden that cannot be carried without the soothing touch of dark humor to ease the constantly impending doom looming above your head. Clint is often game in jokes and ideas such as this, but it comes as a surprise when Natasha breaks into a tired grin too. “I’ll start taking notes. Anything else you want? From us, maybe? Since we’ll obviously outlive you by far.”

“Wait, I have an idea!” Clint straightens his back, revitalized by this quality distraction from his half-assed mission report. “I’ll come in full gear, arrows and bow and all, okay? So it’s raining, right? Hair all soaked, I have this doom and gloom expression plastered on my face, and I just go up to your coffin, lay a hand on it and whisper some shit like, 'I’m too late… I was supposed to be the one to take you out.’”

“You gotta do your raspy, deep voice though,” Nat laughs.

“Wait, are you saying my voice isn’t deep and manly enough for you?”

“I’m sold,” you say, electing to ignore Clint’s last remark of faux outrage. “That leaves you, baby. I want you to wear something insanely foxy and elegant.”

“And a pair of sunglasses, even if it’s not even sunny!” Barton adds enthusiastically.

“Hey, I thought there was no dress code!” Natasha shakes her head, red curls bouncing around her face in protest.

“My funeral, my rules. Besides, you’ll be playing the mourning trophy wife who’s recently been widowed and has inherited a fortune. You _have_ to look good.”

“You have to marry me first to make me a widow.” Her smile is seductive and loving and challenging. Your stomach flips from your sudden surge of anxiety and enthusiasm. _Hopefully, someday_ , you want to say, but you glance at Clint and don’t say anything. You’re tired of him calling you cheesy and mushy all the time.

“And (Y/n) has a lot of paperwork to do yet to earn that fortune she keeps talking about!”

“You know what, Barton? Fuck you.”

You haven’t laughed this much in a long time. You look around the room with a wide smile on your face, trying to memorize these cherished little details that make the whole world bearable for you: the green flash of Natasha’s cat eyes, the crinkle in the corners of Clint’s eyes when he laughs, their playful banters, how Nat swats Clint’s arm playfully when he says something stupid, flashing her pearly whites in an open-mouthed laugh. You’re so overwhelmed with love for Natasha, the Bonnie to your Clyde, the Thelma to your Louise. You don’t know if you could ever thank Clint for having your back no matter what. You want this moment to last forever, and in a way, it does. You’ve burnt it into your memory, imprinted into your heart even; so much in fact that when you took your last breath, you were looking at a terrified Steve Rogers trying to stop your burgundy blood from spilling out, but that wasn’t what you were _seeing_. You saw your partners in crime, laughing over open pizza boxes and half-written mission reports on a cold December night at the SHIELD headquarters two years ago. You saw Natasha, her reflection dancing on the huge window behind her, as the lights of New York and the star-studded sky crowned her crimson hair. Even then, her eyes were the brightest things you’d ever seen. They will always be the brightest for you. _She_ will always be.

* * *

Life goes on without you, even though they don’t want it to. They have a promise to keep though, and they adhere to it, down to the last detail, because when they do, they feel like you’re still alive. Fury is wearing a knitted sweater the color of orange. “For hope,” he says, tugging on his sleeves nervously. Laura is there too, along with all those you had loved and who loved you. Clint wears his full gear, just like he said he would, and he does go up to your coffin, placing a hand over the smooth but cold wood. It’s raining, and he’s not sure whether the water drops on the polished oak are raindrops or his own tears.

“I’m too late… I’m too late…” he whispers, voice barely audible from the panic of your death dawning on him. “I was supposed to be the one to… _I was supposed to be the one to save you._ ”

Natasha never thought she’d ever cry over an ACDC song, especially not Highway to Hell, but today is a first for her from many perspectives. Her mascara is running down her cheeks in thick black lines, but she keeps herself steady because she made a promise to you, and so she obediently keeps pushing her big black sunglasses up that stubbornly slide down her nose every now and then. She is divine, even though she was thoroughly soaked before Steve came to stand with her, sharing his umbrella with her. Your favorite black dress of hers, paired with a black fur coat, delicate black gloves and a pair of high heels. Natasha knows that if this doesn’t wake you up, then nothing will.

She is a widow now, truly. Her codename meant little to her before, but now she is merging with it fully. And the fortune you left her? Well, it may not be tangible, like money, or the little shared apartment of yours, or the wedding band the mortician slid off your finger and gave to Natasha - no, it’s the memories. It’s the nights spent together, the secrets whispered in the dark, the sunsets watched together, the dinners cooked in silent harmony, the love that was made in the symphony of your bodies.

Natasha doesn’t know why, but she thinks back to that cold, cold Saturday night from two years ago. And she smiles through her tears.


	3. Melting Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You see off the remaining Avengers after returning to the Compound from the Garden.

The Compound pangs of the kind of silence that squeezes the heart with fingers of icy terror. The only source of sound is the steady fall of your boots, tough rubber soles on shiny stone; one foot after the other. It’s a miracle you can even walk after everything you’ve been through – Scotland, Wakanda, the Garden. And while Thanos lost a head, the rest of the world lost something even greater. So did the Avengers. But you still had the center of your world.

She’s nowhere to be found inside. The lights blink with false hope, making the Compound appear like a beacon that misleads lost travelers in the middle of the night. Stepping outside feels relieving because you no longer feel like an Avenger in the dark – you feel like anyone else in the world with a blank slate, desperate to write something different on your bloody tabula rasa. The others must have felt it too when they left – Tony, Thor, Rhodey, Nebula, even Steve; each and every one of them melting into the velvety night with a nod or a sigh. You were there, and you watched all of them go, like a child who can’t really grasp the meaning of death. And they coaxed you to leave as well with honeyed lies and false promises, but you stood your ground. You stood your ground for her. Your true relief comes when you spot her mop of blonde hair out by the lake. That is your true beacon of hope.

She has her legs tucked up to her chest, chin resting on her knees as her arms circle around herself in a chokehold. She has folded herself like an old shirt ready to be put away in the closet to rest and to never be touched or worn again. Stubbornly, she refuses to look at you as you sit down next to her on the wooden pier.

“They’re gone.”

“I know. Steve was here, said goodbye before he left. Said he tried to make you go with him.” Her voice is hoarse and ragged like the jagged edge of a knife. It cuts like that too.

“I like blondes, but he’s just not my type,” you say, curling an arm around her tense back as you pull her close. Natasha unravels as her head hits your shoulder. She melts like Icarus’s wings when he flew too close to the sun.

“Promise me you’ll come back. You don’t have to be here all the time, but I’d love to see you every now and then. Or, well, more like need to. I’m just scared that I can’t do this on my own.” Tears dissolve the edge in her voice, as well as her mascara, and her composure crumbles and collapses in on her. Such a rare and wonderful moment, to see into someone’s very heart through the cracks of the walls they’d so carefully built around themselves. You pull her into you as she cries, sitting her between your legs as your strong girl arms hold her to your chest.

“I’m not going anywhere. Unless you want to take a vacation. I’m not opposed to that.”


	4. Trigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble Practice. Used 85. (”Don’t lie to me.”) from [this prompt list](https://hellsdemonictrinity.tumblr.com/post/160523410875/angstfluff-prompt-list).

_V_ _olgograd, 1990_

“Are you alright?”

Dirty jumpsuit, torn by the left knee. A numb ache in your bones. A perfect shiver running down your spine, kissing every vertebra with surgical precision. Speckles of crimson blood on your face like morbid freckles. Not your blood though. Yet you feel like it might as well be yours. You died a little every time you pulled the trigger.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Natasha demands.

“I feel like I’m collateral damage on every single mission we go on,” you whisper. “Does it ever get easier? The killing?”

“No,” she admits, flicking her bangs to the side, skin glistening with youth. “But we will get out of here one day. I promise.”


	5. Predestined (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You decide to confront Natasha about her feelings for Dr Banner.

“You love him, don’t you?”

“Love is too strong a word. Like would explain it a little better.”

Your words make Natasha pause, brief flutter of unsure fingers brushing off an imaginary eyelash from under her eye to cover her lie. Because it’s obvious. Because you’ve never seen her so unbalanced by anything or anyone. She stumbles on her words, halts awkwardly in corners only to stalk off to avoid him. It’s painfully obvious. But to you, it’s just plain painful. You have no personal grudge against the man, but you can’t help but grow angry in your despeartion. Fuck Banner, you think, not really meaning it. You you put some effort into your inward curses and give your frustration a better focus. No, not Banner - fuck Natasha for not seeing you keeling over, tripping over your own damn feet to please her. You make a mockery out of yourself, the once fearsome infiltration specialist agent now reduced to a lovesick, moping woman. You’re still the agent, smelling like flowers and shrugging on leather jackets, personality demanding to be noticed like a strong but pleasant perfume invading the nostrils of those around you. But she’s immune to your poison, and no matter how sweet you are, you cannot seem to lure her in. She steers clear of all unsure topics between you two. Plays it safe. And yet you thought an assassin would have the balls to tell you off if you were unwanted. Guess you were wrong about that.

“ _Like_. Right. Just between you and me, I know you’re bullshitting. But it’s all good. All safe with me. Us girls gotta stick together, don’t we?”

“It upsets you, doesn’t it?” Natasha asks, brows knit together, worry etched in her features as she steps closer. For a moment, you believe she cares. You believe she’s actually concerned about how you feel. You imagine what it would be like to be the centre of her full attention, to be the one she dotes on as much as she does on the doctor. It makes your head spin.

“Eh, it’s not my life.”

“You know, you’re right about the bullshitting. We used to be more articulate with one another back then. We used to be close. We just… no longer talk. No longer tell each other things.”

“I hope I’m not giving you any sleepless nights. Wouldn’t want to steal that right from Bruce.”

“Will you please shut up about him for just a second and tell me your problem? There’s only so much I’m willing to take from this newfound attitude of yours,” she says, arms crossed over chest, the muscles of her biceps stretching under her skin ever so deliciously.

“It’s you.”

The silence that follows is a deafening, suffocating void echoing the fast beating of your heart. Natasha is once again rendered motionless, thinking, your words finally disarming her for a second - even if not the way you’d have preferred.

“God, for so long I blamed Banner for all of this, but it isn’t him. It’s you. And I know I might be selfish for wanting you, but there’s that. I can’t stand the way you look at him. The way you just… melt around him. If I have to catch one more stolen glance between the two of you, I swear…”

Her fingers circle around your lower arm, and before you pull it away instinctively, she sinks her digits into your arm like claws and drags you with her. You’re miserable, but it’s also refreshing to finally evoke any reaction from her at all. Even if it’s her anger because of how desperate you are, out in the open in one of the corridors of the Stark Tower no less. You’re far beyond discretion at this point, but you allow yourself to be dragged into her room, door slamming shut behind you before she turns the key twice with so much force you’re scared for a split second she’ll break it in half. She whips around, her red locks sliding over her shoulders as she gets up in your face and dominates the very space around you.

“Jealousy really suits you, but my god, you can be a complete fucking moron sometimes.” Her drawling deep voice sends a shock down your core, and before you can register her words with your fuzzy mind, her hands are already gripping your waist, pulling you in closer.“I wish you said something sooner. It was becoming tiresome venting to Banner about how impossibly mulish and stubborn you can be around me lately.”

“You should have come to me instead. You should have told me instead of going to Bruce,” you repeat your demands, mouth set in a thin line as your eyes glow with the leftover embers of your dying wrath. “All this pining cannot be healthy for us.”

“I’m inclined to agree. But I’m still a little upset you’ve pegged me as straight after all the times I shamelessly eyed these curves of yours. I guess you’ve got some making up to do, don’t you agree?”

Your shallow breaths fan her skin in a way that ignites an almost visible fire in the woman in front of you. She presses herself against you, letting her hands roam your back, trace a sweet line up your spine that’s only broken when her hands ghost over the straps of your bra, lingering longer and more than warranted in a suggestive manner. She’s no longer holding back, and the purposeful journey of her hands suggests she’s thought about this before. She thought about _you_ , your chests pressed together, your legs slightly apart with her knee gently forcing its way between them. She makes your head spin, and your mouth run dry, because you’ve wanted this for so long. But it also scares you to death because you simply cannot believe this is happening. She reads you like an open book, and keeps you close while she pulls a hand back to lay on the side of your face, thumb rubbing the protruding cheekbone under your skin.

“Hey.”

Her soft voice breaks something in you, a dam that’s been holding back so many things – your concealed longing for Natasha, the shame of being attracted to women when everything around you screams you should get a husband and mind a household instead. How could you ever settle for a man when she stands there, green eyes almost black as her pupils dilate with affection and lust for you? Hell, how could you settle for _anyone else_? And yet you hesitate, you blink back the hot tears gathering in the corners of your eyes as you try not to break down. What you feel is one thing, but how could she feel the same about you? It’s hard, imagining her swooning over your dark humour and laidback remarks as you knock back your third coffee a day. You try picturing her staring at you when you’re training with Steve, sweat trickling down your back making and your t-shirt stick to your damp skin as you dodge the Captain’s swings with ease. Does she find it cute when you laugh so hard your belly aches and your eyes sit like two crescent moons under your brows? Does she want to comfort you when you blow up after missions that result in the death of one of your people? Does she want to kiss the broken skin of your knuckles that you always promise to let heal, but always end up ripping open the next day? Does she lie awake at night, biting back sinful moans as she imagines her fingers to be yours? Fuck, it all seems impossible.

And somehow she’s still here, even as you cry, and as you’re sure you’ve blown your single chance with her.

“If this is going too fast for you… I could slow down. We could take our time. I don’t want to scare you away,” Nat admits, tipping your face up so you’re looking at her instead the edge of the rug on the floor your eyes stubbornly locked onto.

“It’s just… overwhelming. I’ve never… Fuck,” you mutter wiping your tears off angrily as you beat yourself up about breaking down in front of Natasha. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Why are you doing this? I mean, I get it. There is a tension between us and it’d be good to get rid of it. But if you’re only in it for the quick fuck…”

“Baby, there’d be nothing quick about it, I can assure you… But no. I’m not in it just for that. Which is why I’m willing to wait until you’re comfortable. Believe me, after all I’ve been through, I know a good thing when I see one coming my way.”

You swallow, hard. Her heat radiates through her clothes, and you lock your eyes with her green ones, unable to look away, mesmerised by your luck. She can see your struggle, your affection and lust battling your insecurities, and she waits, patient and turned on. Natasha starved for so long, and not just for sex, but for you. You are difficult and dangerous and stubborn, but you’re also good, full to the brim with kindness, wit sharper than the knives you use to quietly dispatch your enemies. She was scared of caring so much for you, but she’s already had the battle with herself that you seem to be going through right now. She’s already accepted it, laid down her weapons and bared herself in front of the altar of loving you. There was just nothing she could do, so she surrendered, lowered her defences, stumbled upon her words whenever you entered the room, exchanged quiet looks with Banner to draw on his encouragement that yes, indeed she had a chance with you. That you weren’t repulsed by who she is and what she’d done in the past before she became the person she is today.

“So you wouldn’t just walk out of my life afterwards if we… you know.”

She grins. Not to make fun of you, of course, but because she cannot wrap her mind around how adorable you can be when you’re a flustered, unsure mess. You’re always so sure, so level-headed, so full of analytical realism and quiet confidence whenever there are lives depending on you. It’s so rare to see you. Just _you_. No heroics, no masked feelings, or the heavy burden of duty that makes one sombre. “I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to do that even if you asked.”

“I want you,” you blurt out, still scared of opening up, but not being able to wait patiently. Not letting her give herself to you now is like leaving a present unopened on Boxing Day. Her impatience kicks in too as your words unravel her resistance, and driving her knee forward and pushing your thighs further apart instinctively. She leans closer now, nose buried in the crook of your neck as she inhales your scent greedily.

“We’ll take it slow,” she whispers reassuringly, the hand on your cheek moving to comb through your locks as you sigh into her shoulder. “Whenever you want to stop, just tell me. I promise I’ll stop.”

You nod, and Natasha rewards your answer with her lips pressing a gentle kiss on the exposed skin of your neck. It’s so ironic how you’d never assume she’d do anything against your will, and yet her reassurance of it seems to have dismantled the last of your lingering worries. The leftover anxiety and anticipation is of a much sweeter nature as you begin to feel the full magnitude of your arousal. You let your hands roam over her biceps, marvelling at how soft such a strong body can feel. Natasha shivers under your touch, her fingers tangled in your hair gently tugging your head back to expose your neck even more. She trails sloppy kisses over your pulse point, along your jaw line, pausing just when her plush lips touch the corner of your mouth. She draws back a little, her gleaming emerald eyes begging you silently for consent. You nod again, and she closes the distance between you slowly, yet without hesitation. You’re both soft and unhurried, testing the waters, seeing if the real thing was just as good as the million times you’ve imagined kissing each other before. There’s so much loving gentleness and bottled up adoration finally let loose that you’re already on the brink of crying again, but her wet tongue dragging along your lips fans the fire of your desire in your belly. There seems to be absolutely no point in trying to resist her any further at this point, so you open your mouth and let her in, whimpering in her mouth meekly as her tongue brushes softly against yours. Her arms wrapped around you tightly keep you together as your knees betray you and buckle a little. The first time she breaks the kiss to allow you both a moment to breathe she pushes you back against the wall and repositions her knee between your legs as she swoops in to capture your lips once more.

Natasha is merciless this time, and you surrender, letting her take control as you can’t seem to be thinking straight. She moans into your open mouth when she slides her hands under your shirt and cups your breasts through your bra, and you involuntarily buck your hips forward, desperate for more friction against your burning core. She notices and helps you get a better angle, meeting your eager little thrusts with her thigh. She pulls back and goes to work on your neck again, sucking and biting gently as she enjoys making you so undone.

“Oh no, not like this, baby,” she mutters into your skin when you begin to pant erratically, your release building irrationally quickly, and she pulls back completely lest for her hands on your sides. Natasha guides to the bed and pushes you on your back, looming above you as she crawls over you between your parted legs. She smiles at you when your eyes meet, and reaches out to drag a pillow under your head. “Comfy?”

“Not bad. Though I like the view better.”

“You do?” she asks with a smirk as she sits up, the flat of her palms sliding down your thighs before landing in her lap. “How about now?”

You’re confused until she removes her tank top with ease and reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra. You’re practically drooling when you take in the heavenly sight of Natasha’s exposed upper body, her scars making this moment even more sacred and religious. There’s so much unsaid trust and affection in the air that you’re close to feeling overwhelmed. Your heart has already been bursting at the seams for all the love it held for Natasha, but in this moment, you don’t think you can control it. You don’t think you want to.

You try to sit up, but she’s on you, pressing you back by your shoulders, smirk pulling on her lips. Once you’re lying flat on your back again, she gathers your wrists and pins them above your head. “Uh-uh. You stay right there, with your hands above your head. Say you understand.”

“I do,” you breathe out. “I understand.”

“Good girl. Why don’t I help you out of these clothes, hm? With your hands being out of the picture now, of course.”

You nod meekly, words failing you as you hold your breath in anticipation when Natasha’s hands begin pushing your shirt up, fingertips dragging along your newly exposed skin with reverent marvel. She is gentle as she guides the soft cotton fabric over your head, leaving the shirt tangled around your wrists as a reminder for you to not use your hands. You could easily free yourself, but why in heaven would you want to do that when Natasha Romanoff herself is on you, half naked, green eyes never leaving your face?

Soon your bra joins your shirt, and before you can even begin to feel embarrassed about your bared body, she’s already praising you, index finger gently tracing your own scars. “Fuck, baby. You’ve been hiding this body under all those clothes and armour all this time?”

“You said I looked good in my tactical vest.”

“You’re the only person I know who can make that look foxy.”

“Guess I really am special,” you quip and Natasha laughs, making your breath hitch in your throat as she presses her body against yours.

“You don’t know the half of it. Which is why I am inclined to show you just how special you are.”

She coaxes the first loud, shameless moan from you when her hot mouth latches onto one of your already erect nipples. The way her tongue flicks over the sensitive pink mound in her mouth makes your already drenched cunt even wetter, and you sorely wish she was already fucking you. The thought of that wonderful mouth lapping at your folds while those nimble fingers - that are now twisting and pinching your other nipple – buried deep inside you is almost enough to make you sob. But Natasha has a mind of her own, and she drags her sweet torture out for longer than you think you could take it. She occasionally emerges to kiss your lips too, before diving back in to bite and suck at your already red, overstimulated nipples, while her hands roam your body, squeezing and kneading the flesh of your thighs and ass.

“Nat…”

She pauses briefly to glance up at your face. Through your blurry vision and eyes hooded with pleasure, you miss the momentarily concern on her face. When she registers just how turned on you are, and what you most definitely want to say, she smirks, resting her weight on her elbows planted on both your sides. “How are you holding up, baby?”

“I need you,” you whimper, a blush of shame dusted over your cheeks that is enough to make Natasha’s resolve cave in almost instantly. She can never resist you, never say no to you. But there are times when you’re difficult, and plant your feet firmly, refusing to go along with what she wants. She’d never hurt you. However, that doesn’t mean she isn’t going to find a way to get you back for this.

“I’m right here. What do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me. God, I need you so bad. Please.”

She removes herself from you entirely before slipping out of her pants and panties, kicking them off before straddling your hips, her sex leaving your skin feeling sticky and wet. “I had something else in mind first. You want me to fuck you, and I can do that, but you have to earn it first. If you do as I say now, I’ll fuck you however you want me to.”

“Okay.”

“Do you trust me?”

“I do.”

“Then close your eyes.”

You’d be lying if you said this wasn’t the most erotic moment of your life. There is something so mindblowing about being totally at her mercy, naked, writhing, with your eyes squeezed shut. You cannot see a damn thing, but you can hear her – the way she pants, as she leans forward and frees your hands, breasts brushing briefly against your face as she pulls back and lays you arms by your sides. Natasha lifts her hips, the drenched spot on your stomach suddenly feeling very cool on your skin as it’s suddenly exposed to air. You’re not sure what she’ doing – it feels like she’s scooting up the bed, and you can hear her grab the headboard with two hands, but you’re still in the dark figuratively until you can feel something soft and wet brush against your closed lips. If there was even the slightest pressure on your clit, you’re sure you would have come this very instant. You open your mouth on instinct as she painstakingly slowly grinds her pussy into your mouth, and you kiss her dripping core reverently. It’s much more than eating someone out. It’s a filthy prayer, an offering on the altar of hedonism.

“Use your tongue, baby. Don’t be shy.”

Her hushed whisper is all the encouragement you need to start working on making her see stars. You slowly disobey her, first by opening your eyes, and second by sliding your hands up her bare thighs and ass before locking them on her hips, but she doesn’t seem to mind, especially not when your tongue darts out to taste her for the first time. She’s all moans and flushed cheeks and convulsing muscles when you start licking her up and down. You’re not able to resist the temptation of sliding your tongue as far up her entrance as you can, eliciting a filthy moan and a curse from Natasha. She starts riding your face, covering your chin and mouth with her juices as she angles her thrusts to line up with your tongue. She lets a hand drop to your head as she rides you, fingers stroking your head almost lovingly despite her obviously building and rather erratic orgasm.

She comes shivering in your mouth when you reach up and twist her nipples between your fingers. She grabs your hands, holding them tight as she rides out her release, and you obediently lap up her cum as she catches her breath. She’s a sight to behold, a goddess showering you with her gifts. And to you, refusing to drink the nectar of the gods when given the opportunity seems like a sin.

Natasha cracks her eyes open as she comes off of her high, and moves to lay gently beside you, a hand guiding your face to hers before she kisses you deep, tasting herself on you. She is pleased, and shivering, pupils blown, cunt humming with the sweet aftershocks of her orgasm. She takes in your desperation, the way you’re so close to begging again as your own arousal has not been given an outlet yet. “You’ve done so well, love. I can’t wait to reward you for it.”

You moan, desperate anticipation clouding your mind as you silently beg her for your release with your eyes. Natasha doesn’t have the heart to tease you any longer, so she gets to work on the button and zipper of your pants, licking her lips as she sees the damp spot on your crotch. She bares your lower body and spreads your legs, fingers digging into your thighs in way they’ll surely leave bruises tomorrow. You don’t mind. Not one bit. You’ve reached a point of submission where she could do anything to you and you’d thank her.

Nat doesn’t hesitate as she dives in, latching her mouth on your sensitive, throbbing clit. She’s making you see stars. Her mouth is leaving you so winded, you barely have the oxygen to moan. Fuck, this woman is good at everything she does. She goes from teasing circles to purposeful up and down licks, her tongue not only licking but also putting just the right amount of pressure over your clitoris. You cry out as your release begins to build rapidly, but the assassin stops, withdraws completely. She kisses your mouth, then strokes your tear-stained cheeks before grabbing your hips. “Roll over for me.”

You do it, no questions asked. Obedient little girl ready for another round of honeyed torture. She hooks a strong arm under your belly and pulls you up until you’re on all fours, ass flush against her hips. Leaning over your back, she kisses her way up your spine until she’s on you, her knees forcing your legs apart. You let her push two fingers in your mouth, even suck on them until she chuckles and leaves a hickey on your shoulder.

“You’ve been such a good girl.”

When her thumb comes into contact with your clit, you push your cunt against her hand for more friction. She sits back on her heels, marvelling at your ass and pussy spread out wide open just for her, your cunt almost literally dripping. Natasha, swayed by the tears on your face, decides to stop her torture as she sinks her index and middle finger deeply in you, letting her thumb continue rubbing your clit. You’re so aroused at this point that you could take a lot more than just two fingers, and that leaves Natasha feeling satisfied. The tighter someone is, the less they’re turned on. Common knowledge. Luckily, you’re quite the opposite, taking whatever she can give you with ease. She lets you fuck her fingers for a while, sucking and kissing the skin of your ass whenever you slow down. When your thrusts turn sloppy, she slows down just enough to deny you your orgasm.

“Press your thighs together for me, baby.”

And you do it, and she starts fucking you so good, digits slick with your wetness curling and rubbing a spot deep inside of you that makes you forget your own name. Keeping a steady, fast rhythm with all her fingers, she finally sends you over the edge, and this time, it literally feels like falling. Your release is strong and steady, just like her strokes, and she lets you ride it out, pushing you further just a little as she keeps that same rhythm until your overstimulated pussy makes you cry out. She slows just before it would overwhelm you, enjoying the way your pussy clenches around her fingers. It makes her a little angry how much time you two have already wasted, when this is how things were always supposed to be with you two, her fingers buried deep in your cunt, your lips parting with lustful sighs, your eyes meeting with mutual love and need. She promises herself this is how things will be from now on. She’ll love you and protect you like she’s done before, but she’ll no longer do it held back. She’ll give everything to you until there’s nothing left to give. And then some.

The scorching water comes as a relief to you both, muscles tense from being stretched to their limits singing in relief as they melt in the heat of your shower. Your arms are around each other, with her head on your shoulder, bare bodies pressed together. Two people assigned the impossible task of saving the world trying to save one another. It’s more than just desire, and you both know that, and it scares you both. Nothing ever happens when you’re ready for it. Things happen when they’re meant to.

And who are you to stand in the way of fate?


End file.
